


Tis the Season

by grey2510



Series: Misc SPN Works (<15k words) [60]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Case fic lite (there’s a case but it’s not the focus), Cursed objects, Dean’s a dork but we love him anyway, Gen, Holidays but no Christmas (don’t let the title fool you), brothers being brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Dean and Sam happen upon a theme bar during their travels, only to discover a few months later that one of the bar's themes might be responsible for some suspicious deaths.





	Tis the Season

"Oh, c'mon, Sammy, lighten up! If there's one perk of this job—"

"You mean, besides saving innocent lives?" Sam says dryly without looking up from his phone in the passenger seat.

"That _is_ the job. I'm talkin' _perks_." Dean swings the car into a parking space far from the bar, whose bright neon lights declare it the HOLIDAY BAR; despite the distance, they can still hear the music thumping into the night air. "It's going to random places like this around the country that we never woulda heard of if we had apple pie, nine-to-five lives."

"We also wouldn't have died several times and—"

"Alright, Debbie Downer, you can just sit in the car while I go in and thoroughly enjoy myself. Hope you got enough podcasts downloaded or whatever nerdy crap you plan on doing out here." Dean reaches into the backseat and grabs his cowboy hat, shoving it on his head and giving Sam an obnoxiously huge grin.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'm coming. But I'm not wearing a hat."

"Your loss. And don't blame me if you don't get the half-priced drinks."

"I'm wearing jeans and flannel!"

"Everyone wears jeans and flannel, Sam. Amateur."

Dean's cowboy boots crunch on the gravel up to the bar door where a sign proudly announces: JULY 27 - NATIONAL DAY OF THE COWBOY. Next to the door is a large bulletin board with a calendar for the bar's themes for the whole month.

"Sure you came on the right day?" Sam asks, jabbing a finger at July 15: Be a Dork Day.

"Ha ha."

The bar is blasting "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" which certainly would not have been Dean's first choice for music, even if he had to pick a country song, but everything else is exactly what he wants out of a cowboy themed night.

There's even a patio area out back where they've rented a mechanical bull for the night.

"Yee _haw_," Dean grins.

* * *

_Two Months Later _

It's way too early in the morning. And by that, Dean means—if you asked him, and he'd very much appreciate no one asking him anything at the moment—that it's pre-coffee-o'clock. 

"Dean—"

"What have I told you, Sam: mornings are for coffee and contemplation." He shuffles into the kitchen, stifling a yawn and tugging his robe closed.

Sam rolls his eyes, which he has done practically every morning since Dean's _Stranger Things_ binge. This, of course, has only fueled Dean's dedication to the wise words of Jim Hopper. This also does not stop Sam from continuing on his path of relentless enthusiasm for whatever case he'd probably found after his morning run. "You know that bar we went to a couple months ago? The weird holiday theme bar?"

Dean grins, despite the lack of caffeine. "Oh yeah! Hey, did you know my birthday's Beer Can Appreciation Day? Just sayin', if you're looking for ideas, a little road trip back to Oklahoma…"

"Since when do we celebrate birthdays?"

"Uh, since the cosmos has decided that my birthday is on the holiest of holidays, clearly."

"Whatever." Sam shoves his tablet into Dean's hands. "Anyway, looks like you might be getting your road trip to Oklahoma sooner rather than later."

Dean tosses the tablet on the counter, ignoring Sam's wince, and sets up the coffee. Only when things are percolating nicely does he take up the tablet again and start flipping through tabs. 

LOCAL MAN DIES WHEN LADDER COLLAPSES

HUNDREDS OF YEARS BAD LUCK? MIRROR FACTORY BURNS DOWN

Three car accident reports, which don't seem all that strange until Dean clicks the next tab and sees an editorial criticizing the town's animal control services for the high population of rogue black cats that have taken a liking to darting into traffic.

"So? Seems crappy but what makes you think it's our kinda thing?"

Sam takes the tablet back and pulls up one more tab. "Check out September 13."

Dean frowns at the screen. It's the Holiday Bar's website and under the indicated date it says, "Defy Superstition Day." He sighs. People do the dumbest stuff on Friday the 13th, like they _want_ to get cursed. He doesn't have high hopes for Halloween around this bar. "Alright. Saddle up in twenty."

"It's not cowboy day anymore."

"Shut up."

Since it had taken a few days for enough cases to pile up and turn into a pattern, they both know it's a long shot finding anything useful at the bar almost a week after "Defy Superstition Day," especially on a weekday. However, for a non-college town bar, the place is hopping for a Thursday night. And hopping is an all-too apt description: quite a few people have bent one knee back and tied a fake peg-leg below, though they are all completely trumped by the chick who has presumably swapped out her usual prosthetic for one more fitting for the night's theme. There's loose-sleeved white shirts and black pirate hats with skulls and crossbones on them and more than a few fake parrots on shoulders. In their Fed suits, Sam and Dean definitely stand out from the crowd.

Instead of a cover charge, there's a table by the door with cheap eye patches for five dollars each. A sign on a wooden donation cashbox next to the basket of patches says all proceeds go to renovating the children's room at the local library. Sam puts in the money but doesn't take a patch; Dean tosses in his five bucks and slides the patch over his head.

"Arrr, matey."

"I still say you should've come on Dork Day."

"Oh go walk a short plank." And with that, Dean sidles up to the bar.

"Arrr," the bartender greets them, and Dean feels mildly vindicated. "What can I get ye? A pint o' rum?"

Dean blinks. "You're serving whole pints of rum?" Even his well-pickled liver shudders a little at that.

The dude shakes his head as he pours the contents of a cocktail shaker into a grey plastic version of an old-timey tankard and points with his free hand to the specials board above him where every specialty cocktail of the night is rum-based: Dark and Stormy, The Bumbo, Grog, Barbary Coast… For an extra two bucks, you get your drink in one of the tankards and you can take it home with you. Dean is about to order a grog but Captain Spoilsport, the Wet Blanket of the Seven Seas, interrupts him. 

"Actually," Sam says, stepping up to the bar and holding out his badge, "we were wondering if you were working here last weekend? Friday, specifically?"

"Sorry. I was here Saturday, though. I think Daniella—she's the one at the end there—might've been working."

They thank him and weave their way through the press of bodies towards the other end of the bar, finally emerging near where Daniella is serving drinks.

"You hear what that girl said when I bumped into her?" Sam asks, smoothing out his jacket, and nodding his head back in the direction of a woman who is clearly enjoying the excuse to wear a corset. 

"She wants your booty? Shiver me timbers? Polly wants a cracker? She wants to swash some buckles?"

Sam grimaces. "No, something about hoisting a sail."

Dean claps his brother on the arm, glancing back at the girl, who winks in their direction and toasts them with her mug. "You could do a lot worse there, me bucko."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "No 'land ho' joke?"

"That's rude, Sam." Leaving his brother obviously feeling wrongfooted, Dean leans on the bar and flags down Daniella, who looks like she's ready to be the next Anne Bonny. "Ahoy there."

"Yo ho ho yourself," Daniella says, giving him a flirty grin from under her tricorn hat. "What can I get ya?"

"Well, the scuttlebutt says you were working here last Friday," he answers, showing her his badge. "My partner and I were wondering if you could answer a few questions."

Daniella's grin falls immediately. "Why? Did something happen?"

"Nothing specific," Sam says soothingly. "We're not at liberty to discuss the details of the case we're investigating, but we were wondering if there was anything odd that happened here last Friday?"

Daniella thinks for a second. "No, not really. I mean, nothing weirder than usual." She gestures vaguely at the bar and its patrons. 

Dean frowns. "And last Friday's theme was something about superstitions, right?"

She nods. "Yeah, we had black cat decorations and open umbrellas, and everything was counted out in thirteens, and our manager rigged up a couple of ladders to walk under when you came in the bar—but we had bouncers there making sure no one climbed them or anything. Oh! Out back they set up a mirror piñata fundraiser thing: five bucks to put on some goggles and smash a mirror with a stick. And there was some other kinda creepy stuff he picked up from some antique shop—old dolls, a stuffed crow, you know."

"An antique shop?" the brothers ask at the same time, giving each other significant looks. Sounds like cursed object territory.

"Yeah," Daniella shrugs. "Henry really gets into this stuff."

"Do you still have the objects?" Dean asks. "Or an address to the antique shop?"

"Dunno about the antique shop—there are a few around here—but I'm pretty sure the stuff's in the barn out back. We reuse props and stuff whenever we can." 

"Great," Sam says. "We're gonna need to look in the barn."

Daniella gives them a considering look, clearly still wondering what could possibly be of interest back there, but she shrugs. "Sure thing."

She signals to one of the other bartenders to cover her for a bit, grabs a set of keys from near the cash register, then leads them out of the bar, around the patio where there's a band in pirate garb performing sing-along sea shanties to an increasingly drunk and incoherent crowd, and across a small yard to an old barn. She unlocks the door and flicks a light on just inside. "Good luck."

The place looks like a hoarder's dream and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to how things have been shoved in there. It's gonna take hours to find the cursed needle in the haystack.

Dean scowls. "Son of a sea biscuit."

Thankfully, it only takes them an hour, singular, to find the cursed object since the most recent props are at the front of the barn and the night in question had only been six days ago. It's the stuffed crow, which Sam picks up with a set of grilling tongs he'd found in a box of cheeseburger-themed paraphernalia. The crow is creepy in its own right, and its beady eyes seem to follow Dean no matter where he stands. More troubling, though, is what's carved into the wooden base it's mounted on.

"Spell?" Dean leans in to squint at the markings, but stays far enough back to avoid accidentally touching it, even if he's got on a pair of oven mitts snagged from the same cheeseburger box. 

"Looks like." Sam adjusts his grip on the tongs. "Throw it in a curse box, take it to the motel, figure out what to do with it?"

"Aye. Hopefully we can burn it or," Dean says, adopting a piratey brogue, "ye c'n send it down to Davy Jones' Locker."

"I wish I were three sheets to the wind right now…" Sam mutters.

"See? Now you're getting it!"

* * *

_Five Months Later_

"Dean, wake up." 

A rough hand shakes him and he startles up in the passenger seat.

"Wha-huh—Sammy?" Dean blinks and rubs his eyes. It's dark out, but considering it's February, that doesn't really tell him much. He stares at his watch until his eyes unblearify enough for him to read it: 8:30 pm. "Thought you were gonna wake me up to switch hours ago."

Sam shrugs, but there's a pleased-with-himself grin playing at his lips that makes Dean immediately suspicious. "You were out cold, man."

"What'd you do to me?" he asks, feeling his face and looking in the side mirror to see if there's anything stuck or drawn on him. "If we're starting up the prank war again, you're dead—" 

In looking out the window, Dean realizes where they are: back at the Holiday Bar, which has to be at least an hour out of their way back to Lebanon.

"Don't tell me they raided Norman Bates' bird stash again."

Sam chuckles. "Nah, nothing like that. C'mon. You'll like this."

"Yeah yeah," he yawns as he unfolds himself from the car and they trudge up through the dusting of snow and huddle against the cold wind. _This better be worth it,_ he grouses to himself.

He perks up when he recognizes the song blasting from the bar— 

_Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise _  
_Tastes so good make a grown man cry _

—and he downright smiles when he sees the theme announcement banner on the door: FEBRUARY 20 - CHERRY PIE DAY

Sam grins at Dean's expression. "I know we were kinda busy with that whole demon thing on your birthday and we're like a month late, but I figured this might make up for missing Beer Can Appreciation Day."

"Have I told you you're a good brother?"

"Not nearly often enough."

Dean rolls his eyes and opens the door, inhaling the glorious scent of baked goods. He glances at the bar and sees two familiar faces: Daniella is dressed in 80s hair metal glory, teased hair and all, while the dude bartender they'd talked to last time is rocking some red lipstick, a blond wig, a red crop top, and some Daisy Dukes. It's all so ridiculously hokey that Dean has to laugh. A waitress goes by with a tray of beers and plates of pie, tearing his gaze away from the bartenders, and he follows the pie's progress longingly.

He turns to Sam. "Please tell me you're not gonna avoid having pie because it's not a salad."

"C'mon, I'm not _that_ bad."

"Yes, you are."

Sam huffs. "Well, we're celebrating your birthday. I'll have some pie. Plus," he shrugs in a gesture of mock innocence, "cherry is a fruit. So it's kinda healthy."

"That's what I've been telling you all along, Sammy." Dean rubs his hands together. "Alright, let's get me some pie!" 

And while the cherry pie (the actual dessert) isn't the best he's ever had, it still puts a smile on his face ten miles wide.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Coldest Hits:  
[Here was the prompt and rules](https://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/186143587080/august-2019-prompt-every-days-a-holiday-posting). 
> 
> Also, since this was my theme, I'm not playing to win, so kudos and comment away :)
> 
> My other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
[Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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